War wounds
by Luscinnia
Summary: Lestrade gets shot and John can teach Sherlock something about the nature of human beings


The house was ordinary.

Nothing on its outside appearance would have given any clue of the hell that lurked behind the front. It was one in a whole row of identical houses in the street.

Neat, nice, boring and full of dirty secrets.

His men already took positions. Hidden, not visible for those who weren't meant to see them. He observed the street, the entrance of the house, the windows and waited that they all had a small moment to calm down and focus; to concentrate on the next steps that were ahead.

Detective Inspector Lestrade felt the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He would be the one in the very "front row".

He took a deep breath and passed the short distance from his position on the opposite of the street. He didn't need to issue another order.

He knocked on the door that still appeared to be harmless and innocent.

Just a door.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Open the door!"

His voice sounded strong and confident. He could feel the eyes on his back, watching his moves and noticing everything that was happening, ready to react, whatever may happen.

The door stayed shut.

Lestrade sighed and nodded at the man on his right. He stepped forward, while Lestrade himself made a few steps backwards. The man kicked in the door as if he would never do anything else.

They carefully entered the house, checking every corner, every shadow, every small hidey-hole for the suspect.

The air was thick and stuffy. The rooms were rubbish – strewn, hardly any sound could be heard beside the men investigating one room after the other thoroughly.

A shot tore the silence apart. An awful loud blasting report, followed by a second one and then…the hollow and horrible sound of a body hitting the ground.

He inhaled.

Lestrade knew what happened.

His brain was working perfectly fine. And something about that fact was terribly wrong. He forced himself to concentrate, keeping the panic outside his mind. He opened his eyes. A ceiling, dim light, dust dancing in a beam of light. Obviously he was lying on his back.

In his ears dwelled a constant ringing sound. He could make out noise; voices, steps, running, shouting. He could feel the tension of hectic and panic around him. Fear was nearly tangible. He forced himself to keep these feelings away from the silent woollen cloud that trapped him.

A face appeared in his field of view, obviously bent over him. The mouth was moving but Lestrade wasn't able to make out what it was saying. Neither was he able to recognize the person the face may belong to.

Slowly, very slowly he gained conscious of his body again.

He exhaled.

Pain.

Terrible pain. Lestrade closed his eyes. Flashes appeared on the insides of his eyelids. There was heat and pain and something wet, that frightened him.

He heard a whimper full of fear and agony and he realised that it was him who made that sound.

He inhaled.

He opened his eyes again. Just a little bit. More faces bent over him. He could hear their voices but still wasn't able to understand what they were saying or – going by the state of their expressions – shouting.

He felt that he was going to pass out any moment. The darkness already lurked in the back of his head. Ready to claim her victim like a hungry feline predator.

He exhaled.

The pain was back. Even more torturing. He whimpered again and let the darkness claim his mind.

"I hate hospitals." Sherlock said and John Watson sighed. Up to now he stated this fact seven times already. "No, you just hate the 80% of a hospital that aren't the morgue." He answered with a frustrated glimpse in his eyes. They walked down another corridor. The heavy scent of disinfection and a creepy silence around them, only disturbed by the beeping sounds of machines observing patients in their beds. "Why did we have to come here? He won't be conscious anyway."

John closed his eyes for a few seconds. There were days Sherlock Holmes was harder to handle than usually. This seemed to be one of them.

"He is a colleague, you may like it or not, Sherlock, I value him and…" he hesitated and Sherlock glanced at him. "You think this might teach me something." John didn't answer. He knew that his friend knew he was perfectly right about John's intentions.

They reached the room and entered it.

Lestrade was, as Sherlock predicted, unconscious and he looked exhausted even while asleep. His face was slack and beneath his eyes were dark circles. He was pale with a grey shade. One hand lay at his site, pinned with the tube leading to the IV bag, the other hand rested on his tummy. There were no bandages noticeable, but they knew they were there.

John became aware of Sherlock staying silent. That was quite unusual for his friend. He threw a look on him.

Sherlock frowned, observed and was obviously occupied by a lot of impressions. "Wanna leave?" said John quietly. It wasn't easy for him to look at the wounded Detective Inspector. It reminded him too much of the times he had to go through. He felt sorry for Lestrade and he hoped, he would be able to cope better with the things that happened to him.

Sherlock kept on being silent. "Sherlock…?" John got worried.

"It is… fascinating.", said his friend and John just wanted to respond angrily, when he went on. "I knew him for a while and met him so often. I saw a lot of injuries and a lot of… things a human could do to other humans, but this is… different." John smiled a bit.

Of course it was different. Sherlock got to know him and grew an awareness of the meaning of being "wounded in action".

"Let's go. I don't want him to wake up. They give him pain killers on a quite high dose and sleep is the best thing he can get right now." Sherlock smirked.

"Of course, Dr. Watson."

They left and on their way home, back to Baker Street, Sherlock thought about the interesting way with words and the human mind.

Lestrade had been shot. The wounds will heal and there will be only some small scars left. But the actual damage that was done, will accompany the Detective Inspector till the end of his days.

Sherlock threw a look at his friend and flatmate.

"Oh…" he said and fell silent again.

John observed him and didn't need him to express what just came to his mind. He knew Sherlock and this "Oh.." was statement enough. He got the message.


End file.
